David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

‘I have not,’ Edward replied, ‘none at all. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any money going to retired barristers in straitened circumstances either.’

‘I wonder if they could have changed the statutes,’ said Powerscourt, cocking an ear to sounds of unhappiness floating down from the higher levels, presumably to do with the total immersion in water, ‘but it’s very difficult to change people’s wills after they’ve been proved. It’s almost unheard of.’

‘Do you think there is a connection with the murders, Lord Powerscourt?’

‘Not directly, no. But there is certainly something odd going on and I am most curious to find out what it is. Suppose Dauntsey discovers something strange is going on to do with the money. He tells his friend Stewart. Then he tries a bit of blackmail on Barton Somerville. Or maybe it’s the other way round. I just don’t know.’

‘So how do we find out what’s been happening?’

‘I have a proposition to put to you, Edward. I can’t say it is particularly glamorous or romantic but it could help a great deal.’

‘Anything at all, Lord Powerscourt.’

‘Before I outline the task ahead, Edward, let me explain what is going to happen to these wills.’ He popped a hand under his chair and brought out a bundle of papers, secured, Edward noticed, with legal string.

‘These wills are arranged, first of all, in time order. Then I have tabulated them into categories of payment, help for poor students, help for retired barristers, general discretion of the Inn, that sort of thing. I have put the date of each bequest in brackets before the money. Thank God there weren’t any more of these dead benchers, Edward, we’d have suffocated in paper. My brother-in-law, financial equivalent of W.G. Grace as I said before, is coming to collect them this evening and peruse them in his counting house tomorrow. But I know what he will want before he can come to any conclusion.’

Edward lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Annual accounts or the equivalent, from last year or some other recent year. Now, listen carefully, Edward, and tell me where I go wrong in this description.’ Powerscourt paused. A prolonged wail of great unhappiness shot down the stairs, followed by a second, rather shorter protest.

‘I think she’s washing their hair,’ Powerscourt said, sounding as if he disapproved of the practice. ‘Anyway, there is a bencher in the Inn one of whose tasks is to look after the money but only, you might say, in a tactical sense. The strategic direction rests, as you might expect given his title, with the Treasurer. In symbolic recognition of which fact, the box files relating to the annual accounts are held in his outer office, guarded by that gorgonic female with the mousy grey hair and the long fingernails. I forget the bloody woman’s name.’

‘McKenna,’ said Edward, ‘Bridget McKenna.’

‘She would be called Bridget,’ said Powerscourt bitterly, who had a violent dislike of the name since hostile encounters with a very stupid parlourmaid called Bridget in his youth. ‘But she has the files all right. They stretch round behind her desk on shelves, two or three levels high, in black boxes with the dates of the accounts written on them. I know that, because I inspected them the first time I went to see Somerville and his gang. How am I doing, Edward?’

‘You’re doing fine,’ Edward smiled, suspecting he knew what was coming. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to steal some of them,’ said Powerscourt. ‘As many as you can. Preferably tomorrow.’

‘I see,’ said Edward, and scratched his head.

‘Let me give you a suggestion as to the general method I would employ if it was me. I would do it, or Johnny Fitzgerald and I would do it, but I think you would have a better chance if you were caught. You could say you were doing it for a dare or a bet or some other foolish extravagance of youth. I have asked to see them, of course, I asked long ago and was told it was none of my business. I think we may need to involve Sarah, though I leave that to your discretion. There are two ways of approaching the files, what you might call theft or substitution. Theft is self-explanatory, you simply take them off the shelf and walk away. Substitution means that you bring with you a couple of identical files with the same dates as the ones you wish to purloin. You take one out and you pop the other one in. So, at a glance, nobody would know anything had gone. But it all depends on how and when they lock the door.’

There was a faraway look in Edward’s eyes as if he had left Manchester Square and had returned on a piratical mission to the courts and walks of Queen’s Inn.

‘I think it works like this, Lord Powerscourt,’ he said, speaking quite slowly as if his plan hadn’t finally been settled in his mind. ‘If they’re both out to lunch, they make sure the door is locked. Any major departures, they close up behind them. But on minor matters there must be times when it’s empty, even if only for a few minutes.’

‘Does the gorgonic female lock up when she goes to the bathroom, do you suppose?’

‘I don’t think she would, but that might only leave a very little time. How about this, Lord Powerscourt? Mr Kirk, the head of my chambers, has hurt his leg very badly. It’s true. He brought two sticks in with him today. So let’s say he appeals to Somerville to come and see him on some important matter, rather than him going through hell to reach the Treasurer’s quarters. Once he’s arrived, Sarah sets off for the gorgon’s lair, with a terribly sad story. Her typewriter has gone funny. The ribbon is wrapped round the cantilever or whatever the thing is called and can’t be cleared, so it’s now rather like a tangled fishing line. Sarah will know how to do that. The gorgon always prides herself on being Queen Bee or Head Girl to all these stenographers. So if Sarah makes it dramatic enough, wailing away about work that has to be finished by two o’clock that afternoon or whatever it might be, the gorgon will hurry out to help, and she hasn’t time to lock the door. Enter the Artful Dodger, me. I depart half a minute later. I like substitution better than theft, Lord Powerscourt. I think they shift about, those files, and throw up a lot of dust if they’re all moved three boxes to the left. It wouldn’t look right either. I think three is the most you could carry around Queen’s Inn. You see people walking about with one or two or three under their arm, very seldom any more.’

Powerscourt supposed Edward must have been exposed for some years now to the inner workings of the criminal mind. ‘Do you think Sarah will be able to carry it off, Edward?’

‘I’m sure she will, she’s female,’ said Edward delphically.

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ said Powerscourt.

‘I only meant, my lord, that women can always come over melodramatic when it suits them. Even Sarah,’ he added darkly.

‘When do you think you might be able to effect this piece of criminality, Edward?’

‘I shall have to talk to Sarah. I’m on my way to see her now, in fact. I shall let you know. It may be that the opportunity will simply present itself out of the blue. We shall trust in God and keep our powder dry.’

Powerscourt was escorting Edward towards the front door. At the top of the stairs they heard a firm cough behind them. It was Nurse Mary Muriel.

‘I know this is very unconventional, Lord Powerscourt, but I wondered if you would like to kiss the twins goodnight, you and your young friend.’ She smiled at Edward. ‘It’s not every day you’re here at this time, my lord.’

So Powerscourt and Edward had a double armful each, an armful of perfectly clean, sweet-smelling, sleepy-looking twin.